exaltation
by Hayashi Mikako
Summary: Maybe the world isn't that simple, but all he wanted was to stay alive. That was what it took: a meeting, a prophecy, an argument and a stupid, stupid stubbornness. He was more than just some sick kid. He was a sick kid who wanted to live.


They told him he wouldn't live past ten.

At first, they wanted him to stay in the hospital. Go through day after day of treatment because maybe (_maybe_, he thinks bitterly) they'll be able to extend his life. Bullshit, he thought. He wasn't scared—of death, of whatever comes next—of anything. The least he needed was for them to lock him up while they tried to postpone his inevitable end.

Eventually, they let him go back to school. He hated school, but it was better than the hospital (he knows the hospital too well, by now). At least there were other kids. It was—in a way—his own freedom. Like an opportunity. Like giving him a chance to at least pretend—even for a while—that he wasn't slowly dying.

* * *

In the end, though, he always knows it's just a—a _game_. He knew he only had a limited time left, after all—they did a great job of reminding him. _You're dying, you're going to die_. It's not like it matters to him anymore. He's sick, and he knows it. He's dying, and he knows it. It's not as if it's going to stop him from living.

Which is why when he first meets that one kid in the back of the classroom in first grade (which feels like _so long ago_, now), that kid they called creepy and clairvoyant and Prophet of Death, who says to him, quietly yet firmly—words he's heard one too many times. Told to him by his family, by his doctors, everyone around him, whispered in his dreams—he feels like he wants to punch something.

"You're going to die soon," the kid says.

Birthday scoffs. "What, that's your prophecy?" Of course he'd heard the rumors about that guy—he didn't know any kid who hadn't. One of his classmates told him that the guy could read minds, another told him he could predict the future. But it was mostly just about death. They mostly associated the kid with death—And death, if anything, was the one subject Birthday had always known about.

"It's true!" the guy counters, like he doesn't know when to back down.

"Well, so what?" he snaps. The kid looks shocked (like no one's ever had the nerve to react to his predictions like that, and Birthday hates how high-and-mighty he's acting). "I won't run," he continues defiantly, barreling on (he's _mad_ by now). "I'm not scared." He waited, but the other kid didn't say anything. He felt it then, like an anger bubbling up inside him (but _more than that_), like a void. He was fed up with it—with all the visits to the hospital and the crying and the notions of his last days, all the unspoken words, the rumors, his inevitable death (he didn't _want_ to die)—but most of all, he just couldn't stand the kid sitting in front of him, delivering a prophecy that he probably thought Birthday had never heard. "Because—because you know what? Because I'm not going to die!" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them (but does he _want_ to?)—but maybe it was that moment that he first realized it. Ever since he could remember he had always known he wasn't going to live—but it was right then, in the classroom with the shades drawn and the day's teachings still written on the board, arguing with some guy he'd just met—that he first considered the possibility of _not_ dying.

"But—"

"I won't!" He's yelling at him, but he's mad now, and his mind is spinning with the thought of life and death and—_God_, he wasn't _scared_—He reels on the kid, staring at him, shouting at him (as if it'll make it better): "I won't! I won't! I won't!"

The kid pushes himself out of his chair, his hands balled into fists like he wants to fight Birthday on the subject of his _own life_. "You will!"

"Oh yeah? Think you're so great—" (_Think you're never wrong, huh?_)

"I'm not—"

"Fine!" (His voice is trembling.) "_Fine_! I'll prove it to you! 'Cause I'm not gonna die! I'm not gonna! And if I don't die, you'll have to die instead!" Something's bubbling inside of him, rising (he feels like he's going to cry). But he's not going back. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't going to listen to them—he wasn't going to just _conform_ to what they told him—his parents, his family, his doctors, _everyone around him_ and now this one prissy kid who'd probably never been wrong in his life. But Birthday would show him. He didn't have to listen to him. He was going to _live_.

(Or maybe it wasn't really that noble. Maybe he just wanted to act tough to someone, anyone. It wasn't as if he really had a _reason _to stay alive until then—for him, death was easier than life. He wasn't _looking forward _to death, but now it became a lot simpler. Life wasn't as easy—or as hard—as it seems. But dying—dying would make him look like a coward.)

Later, he goes into surgery (not like he wants to). There's little chance of success and he knows it—but for once he's brought himself to care. He wanted to show that kid that he wasn't always right. And that Birthday, himself, could live. _Would_ live. He wasn't scared of anything. He would overcome anything. If it took a miracle for him to stay alive, then he'd make a damn miracle. He was going to survive, and laugh in his face.

He feels completely terrible after the operation, kind of like he was already dead, but he knew he wasn't. And he felt triumphant for that, kind of stupidly victorious. Later, he finds the kid (_Ratio_, his name is) in the hospital (and he realizes then how much it meant to see him there).

"Prophet, my ass." It's so _quiet_, he notices, and he hates it—this helplessness, the taste of rotten _death_ upon his tongue. But—God, if there was just one thing he could ask for—he'd rather die than be alone in life. Ever since he could remember, no one around him ever seemed to care about his _life_—it was always about his death, it was always about keeping him alive for as long as possible—but he always thought he wasn't going to live. No, he _knew _it, and for that reason he'd never thought about what it'd feel like to be truly _alive_—about how terrifying life is (more so than death), but now, _now_, he doesn't feel alone anymore.

"So? Die, like you promised." (He was _alive_, really and truly alive—they told him he wasn't going to survive—but _here he was_, wasn't he?) "The fake prophet's now dead." (—alive, and… not completely alone anymore.) "I killed him." Ratio looks at him then, really looks at him, but it's different now. He needs him. Because he knows (he _knows_) that it's not the same anymore.

Birthday had always been, among many things, an oddity. Life was a long road; but for him, it seemed like he was going to be taking the highway. He didn't choose for it to be the way it was. It wasn't that simple. But the world, _his _world, the way it was meant to be—it was like he had thrown it askew. That was all it took: a meeting, a prophecy, an argument and a stupid, stupid stubbornness. He was more than just some sick kid. He was a sick kid who wanted to _live_.

_So this is what it feels like… to be alive. _

They told him he wouldn't live past ten. He proved them wrong.


End file.
